


'Cause I Belong to the Hurricane

by norgbelulah



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Intoxication, Knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd is drunk. Raylan is... something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Cause I Belong to the Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> Written for entangled_now last June for Five Acts. Posted now to fully archive my fic.

"You're drunk, Boyd. Very drunk."

"Yes, Raylan. What of it?"

"Why?"

Boyd pulls something like a pout across his face and Raylan is surprised, realizing he must have become seriously intoxicated while sitting by himself on Ava's porch. "Because I can't sit in that room anymore. Ava won't let me." He says, as close to a whine as Raylan's ever heard him. "An' because Dickie Bennett's in prison 'stead of the ground."

Raylan takes off his hat, stepping closer to Boyd, and says, "That's a piss poor reason for getting yourself tanked, if you ask me."

"Well, I didn't ask you, Raylan. When do I ever ask you for anythin'? It's always you--" He breaks off, shaking his head as if to clear it, and takes another draw from the bottle.

Raylan takes it from his hand when he pulls it from his lips and it's a sure sign of how drunk the man is that he doesn't even protest. "I came to say thank you for letting me take Dickie. It was a hard choice I made, and I know it was even harder for you. But the girl lived and she didn't kill anybody either, so I figure it was a job well done."

"Do you?" Boyd says darkly and Raylan doesn't bother answering. He knows Boyd wouldn't have wanted blood on the hands of a fourteen year old. Things didn't always have to stay the same in Harlan.

Raylan lifts the flowers he holds and leans forward to get a good look into Boyd's downcast eyes. "Now I'm going to go inside and give these, and my apologies, to Ava. Are you all right with that?" Raylan realized the wisdom of getting Boyd's okay, even if it rubs him the wrong way.

Boyd rubs his face like he's trying to wash the drunk off. "Yeah, she'll be happy to see you, I think. If she ain't, though, you come straight back out. I won't have her upset."

Raylan smiles at the fiercely protective look that has just arisen in Boyd's eyes. "Of course," he replies and makes his way inside.

 

Raylan comes back out of Ava's sick room at her behest because there are strange noises coming from the kitchen. The sounds of cabinets being slammed and stifled cursing echo up the stairs as Raylan descends them.

"Boyd, what the hell are you doing?" Raylan asks as he catches sight of him, leaning against the counter, trying to accomplish something culinary with a butcher knife and a loaf of bread. God knows Boyd is in no state to be wielding anything sharp.

Boyd doesn't look up, all his attention in front of him. "I need to eat some--" he cuts himself off with a sharp cry of pain and then the blood starts flowing.

Raylan crosses the kitchen in a split second, dragging a dish towel from the handle of the fridge and pressing it up hard against the deep cut Boyd just put in his own flesh.

"Jesus, Boyd," Raylan says, staring at him stare at his hands like he can't quite believe what just happened. "Come over here," he directs and pulls Boyd to the table by their clasped hands, "Sit the hell down."

Raylan sits opposite him and presses harder against the cut. They look like they're at some kind of palm reading, hands clasped together across the table.

Boyd's still staring at his hand, the blood's seeping a little now through the thin towel, when he says quietly, "It's gonna bleed more. 'Cuz I'm so drunk. Alcohol, it thins your blood."

Raylan frowns. "It wouldn't have happened at all if you weren't so drunk."

Boyd looks up at him then and smiles big with a wide, loopy look in his eyes. Couldn't be loss of blood yet, so Raylan chalks it up to intoxication and a little bit of shock. "Probably not," he admits.

"Is there a first aid kit in here?" Raylan inquires.

Boyd blinks then answers when Raylan nudges him, "We keep 'em in every room of the house now. One in here...it's under the sink."

Raylan grabs Boyd's uninjured wrist and puts that hand on top of the towel. "You hold this here, Boyd, and you hold it tight, okay? I'll get the bandages."

Boyd does as he is told. A little furrow forms in his brow from concentration or effort, Raylan can't be sure, but he thinks it's about the most endearing expression he's ever seen on the man's face.

The kit is where Boyd said it would be and Raylan sits back down a minute later to examine the damage.

Boyd's looking a whole lot paler now and his head dips every several seconds, like he's having trouble holding it up. The towel is not quite soaked.

Raylan would normally suggest a visit to the hospital, if this wasn't Boyd Crowder he was talking to. As long as an appendage wasn't completely severed, there would be no doctors involved here.

"Boyd," Raylan says not a little urgently, "Boyd," he repeats louder and reaches across to draw his hand across Boyd's pale cheek. Boyd's attention returns to him. "You gonna be able to do this? We can put you on the couch, if not."

Boyd blinks slowly and licks his lips, gathering himself to answer. He doesn’t move away from Raylan’s touch. "Raylan, I don't think I could walk all the way over there, even with you helpin'. I'll… can I just lay my head here... on th' table... 'til you're done?"

Raylan smiles, trying to look reassuring. "That’s fine, just… try and stay with me as long as you can." He runs his fingers softly through the hair at the top of Boyd’s head when he gently lays his head against the table, between his extended arms.

“The room is spinning,” Boyd says to the wood, sounding like he’s on an amusement park ride.  
Raylan laughs. “That’ll happen when you mix your blood with half a bottle of Jim Beam and then drain a pint of it.”

“Don’ project on me, Raylan. Jimmy’s your favorite. I like pissing away Jack.”

“I apologize, Boyd. I forgot,” Raylan replies.

 

Fifteen minutes, at least four feet of bandage, and a decreasingly sense-making round of verbal banter later, Boyd’s hand is cleaned and wrapped. Raylan hadn’t found, after all that blood, that stitches were necessary.

When he finally gets the kit back together and Boyd is successfully sitting up, if not a little bit back, in his chair, Raylan gets up to retrieve the bottle he left inside the door upon his arrival.

He takes a drink as he sits down opposite Boyd once more.

"I need a drink after that," Raylan says, feeling the fire burn all the way down. "You," He points the bottle at Boyd. "Can't have any more."


End file.
